


2. Daemonheim

by DiAnima



Series: Animus Vox: Book 1 [3]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Gen, Some bloody violence, baby lyra turns into small lyra, i cannot tag the spider enough, one big spider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:30:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiAnima/pseuds/DiAnima
Summary: Time passes after the Battle of Lumbridge, and Lyra grows up in Daemonheim.





	2. Daemonheim

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline is non-canonical, as mentioned in the previous chapter.
> 
> As always, any and all feedback is welcome!

She was small, and quiet, and Moia didn’t know what to do with her. She thought she knew what human children needed - food, water, challenge, guidance - she had been a nearly-human child herself, once, after all. But it was one thing to know what was needed. It was quite another to try to provide it, with those brown-black eyes watching her so trustingly.

 

_I need to get this right. But how?_

 

Within a few days she gave in. She called on an old friend for aid, and Daquarius Rennard, captain of the Kinshra, dutifully obliged. He was human, more or less - more? Less? It was hard to tell when the personal blessing of his god burned scarlet behind his eyes. And yet Moia had no idea who else she could ask.

 

In the quiet of Daemonheim’s throne room, Moia showed Lyra to him and asked him what he thought. The others were away. They had some privacy.

 

Rennard crouched down and looked at the girl intently. She stared back, her little hand gripping on tight to Moia’s.

 

“I’m no expert,” said Rennard after several moments, “but I’d say she’s no older than five. Three or four, perhaps. But…hard to tell. Does she speak?”

 

"No. She’s been quiet.”

 

Rennard frowned. “Do you talk to her?”

 

“Sometimes. I try.”

 

“Do try. And don’t leave her alone if you can. It seems that you’ll need to be the one to teach her to speak, and that is best done by talking to her. I know that much.”

 

Once he was gone, Moia went back in her logbook to the day she had brought Lyra home, and marked it. _She’s four,_ she thought. Lyra sat on the floor near her feet and played with a puzzle box, turning the sides this way and that. She liked the noise it made when she turned it - satisfying little _clicks_. Moia had bought it on a whim on one of her surface expeditions years ago, and still hadn’t worked out how to open it.

 

_How long do humans live? Fifty years? Sixty? Not long._

 

_Not long at all._

 

*

 

She was four, and Moia had promised that she would be useful, but there was only so much she could ask from a child who barely came up to her knees. Small chores, fetching and carrying. Nothing more.

 

Moia took her to the surface whenever she went - several times a month, usually. _She must learn how to act around her own kind._ And so Lyra learnt how to recognise Moia with a glamour - Moia always chose to wear faces similar to Lyra’s, dark and curly-haired, though without the distinctive pale patches splashed across her face and arms.They were usually taken to be sisters. Lyra learnt this, and that the crowds and noise of the surface markets were nothing to be afraid of, and most importantly, she learnt to stay close, to listen, and to stay out of the way of those larger than herself.  

 

Back home, underground, Moia showed her how to wrap her hands, and made her practice every day until she could do it with her eyes closed.

 

“When should I give her a weapon?” Moia asked Daquarius one time he came to visit.

 

“The earlier the better,” he said. “So she’s not afraid.”

 

Moia stole a dagger the next time she visited Edgeville, snatching it from the belt of a drunk sprawled on the riverbank. Nothing special - plain, dull grey, scratched and dirty. It would do, for now.

 

She took it home and met Zamorak just as he was about to leave for the abyss. He saw what she was carrying and looked unimpressed. “What is that?”

 

“It’s for Lyra.”

 

He watched her take a whetstone and draw it along the sharp edge of the blade.

 

“Will she ever fight with blunted blades?” he said.

 

Moia paused. “No.”

 

“Then let her learn.”

 

Moia looked at him for a moment. She thought about saying, she’s a child, my lord - the danger - she’ll hurt herself - but she knew what he would say to that. She knew exactly what he would say.

 

She nodded, and re-sharpened the blade.

 

*

 

Lyra was five and at long last she started to speak, monosyllabic at first but stringing together sentences within weeks. Moia taught her the common tongue of the human kingdoms in the east first, and then some of the dialects and accents of the provinces. Lyra picked it up quickly, and Moia sometimes heard her talking to herself, her little voice echoing in the empty halls.

 

Then came the Infernal languages, harsh, guttural avernic, and a little of the imperial Chthonian tongue, for spells. Once, Zamorak found them in the throne room and paused to listen while Lyra recited an intricate avernic battle-curse at Moia. She knew it from memory, and repeated it without hesitation or error. Zamorak watched, and listened, and when she was done he nodded once and continued on his way.

 

He rarely paid much attention to her, otherwise.  

 

*

 

She was six, and she found the stash of black chalk Moia and Bilrach used for marking spell sigils on the floor. Left alone with it for a few hours while Moia travelled through the abyss with Zamorak, they returned to find the bottom two feet of one wall in the throne room covered in thick dark lines.

 

Moia, tired, bruised, burnt, sighed and took a breath to chastise her for making such a mess, but her god motioned for her to be silent. He went to the wall and Lyra looked up at him, hesitating in her work.

 

For several moments, Zamorak regarded the markings in silence, his wings shifting a little on his back. Then he knelt down and held out his hand. Lyra guiltily gave him her chalk. Her hands were sooty and a few streaks of it were smeared on her face.

 

Zamorak turned to a clear patch of stone one the wall, and in three quick movements drew out a sigil. Moia knew it - demonic sigils could have a thousand meanings, but this one was simple - light. He gave the chalk back to Lyra and sat back on his heels.

 

She reached out and, slowly, with several false starts, copied the marks. They weren’t difficult and Moia was pleased to see that her attempt was passable. Zamorak laid his fingertips on her attempt at the lines and said the word, and yes - it glowed, yellow-white. Only faintly, and it flickered, but Lyra gave a delighted gasp and put her hand over his.

 

Moia felt her breath catch, but he didn’t slap the girl away. He said the word again. Light. She repeated it back to him.

 

“Do you feel it?” he said, and Lyra scrunched up her face in concentration. She nodded. “Good. Now hold it…”

 

And he took his hand away, leaving Lyra’s on the mark. Light, she said again, Light! And for a moment it seemed like the glow would stay - but then it faded back to black, and was gone. Lyra scowled and smacked her hand against the wall. Light!

 

Zamorak rose and walked away, and Moia saw satisfaction on his face as he went.

 

*

 

She was eight, and growing fast and strong, when Zamorak returned from a short time on Infernus with a demon in tow. He dragged it through the portal and threw it onto the flagstones in the centre of the hall, where it tried to rise, snarling. It was Avernic, but a weak one, old and wounded. Two of its limbs were broken, useless. Its whole body shook as it struggled to regain its footing, blood and spit dripping from its mouth, teeth bared, eyes bulging.

 

Zamorak took his throne and looked at Lyra. She watched the beast from the edge of the room with horrified curiosity.

 

“Kill it,” he said.

 

For a few moments, she didn’t react. The demon’s breathless, pained snarling echoed down the halls.

 

“Why?” she said. “It’s yours.”

 

“Yes. And I want you to kill it.”

 

Lyra nodded, frowning. She put up her thick curly hair and drew her knife. She had long outgrown the little weapon Moia had stolen for her years ago. She had something larger and keener now, a blade that sat well in her hand.

 

Zamorak sat back in his throne and watched. The Avernic didn’t put up much of a fight. Its wounds had done half the job already.

 

Once she was done, Zamorak gestured for her to approach and she obeyed. She stood before him, her knife clenched in a trembling fist, looking him in the face with no trace of fear.

 

He took her knife and wiped a little of the blood off on his thumb. He leaned forwards - she flinched, the smallest little reflex movement, but she didn’t step away - and marked her, a short stripe between her eyes.

 

“Good,” he said. “I’ll make something of you yet.”

 

Later, in private, Lyra cried - but only quietly, so Moia, sleeping next to her, wouldn’t hear. She couldn’t explain it. She didn’t try to stop it, and soon, it passed.

 

*

 

She was twelve, and she traversed the floors of Daemonheim alone.

 

Moia had teleported her up here some hours ago. She had her little pack of supplies - sparkstone,  kindling, waterskin, fishhook and line - her knife, her bow, a cold enchanted gem in the inside pocket of her short coat, her wits, and that was it.

 

Her challenge, as always, was to make her way home.

 

The floors she had found herself in this time were bitterly cold. Ice shone in the cracks between the flagstones, hanging from the ceiling in places like long, glinting blades. Lyra’s breath steamed in front of her face, and her hands, bruised and grazed from her travels so far, were nearly numb. She stayed warm by moving, forcing herself on through the puzzle-doors, overpowering the few opponents she met along the way. The beasts on these upper floors were either old and forgotten, or new lodgers - creatures who had somehow made their way down from the surface above in search of shelter or, in vain, of warmth. They rarely stood in her way for long.

 

Lyra shoved open another heavy door - the mechanical eye in its socket above the lintel glared at her with disapproval - and slipped through. More cold, dank air. So stale it had a taste. Bitter. Cloying. Cold. She paused on the threshold and looked around. Empty. No movement. No enemies.

 

No - wrong - water! A pool of water, near the far wall. She stared at it for a moment, and smiled when the surface rippled. Fish! _At last_.

 

She crossed the room, checking her steps for traps as she went, and knelt by the water. It was murky, but there was certainly something moving down there. She pulled the hook and line from her pack and glanced around for bait. A patch of sticky grey lichen on the wall - that would have to do.

 

She scraped some off and baited her hook and set it in the water to wait.

 

She waited.

 

Silence, silence all around. The loudest noise was her own breathing - she tried to keep it quiet, in case something bigger and hungrier than her forced its way in.

 

Fish moved slowly in the water. One arched, silver back breached the surface for a moment. Lyra nearly grabbed at it - but no, wait, patience. _Don’t scare them away._

 

The gem in her pocket grew warm and Lyra took it out and laid it in her palm. ‘Still here,’ she said.

 

‘How goes?’ Through the gem, Moia’s voice was distant and distorted - the magic connection between Lyra’s stone and Moia’s got stretched a bit when used in Daemonheim. Warped, somehow, by the inherent strangeness of the halls.

 

‘Quiet,’ said Lyra. ‘Cold. I’m keeping moving.’

 

‘No you’re not,’ said Moia, and Lyra wondered - not for the first time - how well Moia could track her as she moved through the floors. ‘What are you doing?’

 

‘Fishing.’

 

‘I told you to eat before you went.’

 

‘I did! I got hungry.’

 

‘Don’t be long. You’ve got a long way to go.’

 

‘I know.’

 

‘Good luck.’

 

And the gem went dark and cold and silent again. Lyra put it back in her pocket and plucked at the fishing line. No luck just yet.

 

Something touched her arm, feather-light.

 

She sprang up, her knife in her hand in a moment, and jumped away from the glittering eyes and dripping pincers and slowly waving hairy legs of a spider half as tall as she was. It hissed.

 

Lyra took a moment at a safe distance to quiet the shock in her chest. _It heard me. I should have stayed quiet. Shouldn’t have talked so loud._

 

A night spider.

 

It came up to Lyra’s waist, fat, black, eight legs as thick as her forearm and covered in coarse, spiny hair. The faint light glistened on its body, greenish-purple. It raised its front two legs and waved its forelimbs at her, slow, silent. Its head, studded with shiny black eyes, armed with hand-sized fangs, didn’t move. It gave a low, chittering hiss.

 

Lyra edged back and drew her knife, holding it ready at guard. She hated fighting spiders. The bastards could-

 

\- _jump_ -

 

No warning, there never was - no visible bunching of the muscles, no slight flick of the eyes - it launched itself at her. She went to the side, dropping low and coming up on one knee, knife up and ready -

 

A foreleg struck out at her and the claw at the end opened up the back of her hand - she cried out and in her shock dropped her knife - no! _Stupid!_

 

She reached to snatch it up and the spider rushed at her, hissing, hissing, hissing - she kicked it off and got to her feet. It circled her, waiting.

 

Lyra breathed through her mouth. She could feel the wound on her hand - feel the blood dripping off her fingers, hot on her freezing fingers, pattering on the stone floor. Were those claws poisoned? She couldn’t remember -

 

It lunged and she moved too slow - it knocked her down and claws tore into her shin, her side, those fangs closed around her thigh and bit -

 

She screamed and the noise startled it - the leg on her side twitched - she seized it in both hands and yanked - it snapped at the joint with a spurt of dark, viscous blood - the spider screeched and let go -

 

She drew her free leg up and kicked it in the face, shoving it away, whacking at the claw digging into her shin with the piece of leg. It gave her space, hissing furiously, and she dived for her knife and went for the narrow join behind its head -

 

It died, shuddering, under her hands.

 

When it fell still at last, Lyra dragged her knife free and fell sideways onto the floor.

 

Cold stone under her back.

 

Her head swam. Her hand smarted, burned. Her thigh didn’t hurt as much as she expected. A dull, purple throb. Weirdly numb.

 

Definitely poison.

 

_Breathe._

 

Night spider poison. She tried to remember what it did. How much time she had…

 

_Breathe._

 

_Think!_

 

Something over her chest grew warm. The gem. The gem to Moia. Lyra took a deep breath and pushed herself up to sit, pulling the gem from her pocket.

 

‘Lyra? Speak to me.’

 

Lyra tried to speak. All that came out was a groan. She sat forward and held up her injured hand to examine. _Keep it clean. Need to cover it. Don’t want infection._

 

‘Lyra!’

 

‘Moia,’ she said, blinking. Why did the light hurt? A headache was starting to thump behind her eyes. Her breathing felt slow. She tried to focus - cold stone under her legs, warm gem in her hand.

 

‘Speak to me.’

 

‘I’m fine. Just…ran into a spider. But it’s dead. Squashed it dead.’

 

‘Good. Get up and keep moving.’

 

Get up. Keep moving. Get home.

 

‘Can you do that, Lyra? Or do I need to come up and get you?’

 

‘No! I’m fine.’

 

‘Get up, then. Keep moving.’

 

The gem went cold.

 

Lyra pushed herself up onto her hands and knees and, carefully, tried to stand. One leg was fine. The bitten one burned. Two puncture wounds on the outside of her thigh. She touched it lightly and cursed when the pain spiked. It felt hot. Not good.

 

_Need to keep moving. Get home._

 

Fish. The fishing line. It was her only one. She couldn’t leave it. Or the next time Moia sent her up, she’d have no line. No food.

 

She hobbled around the broken spider corpse and dragged the line out of the water. No fish. Didn’t matter.

 

_Keep moving._

 

She rolled up the line and stuffed it into her pack. She got back to her feet and staggered - a wash of dizziness crashed through her, hot and cold all at once. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Keep your feet. Lose your feet, lose the fight.

 

It passed, slowly, and when she opened her eyes again the room didn’t swim too much.

 

She took another deep breath, noting the new pain in her stomach, and made her way unsteadily to the door.

 

She shoved it open with her shoulder and paused there, panting, breathless. She squinted into the next room. It was light. Strangely light. Green.

 

_What…?_

 

A grey stone pillar stood in the centre of the room, rough, uneven. Threads of blue-green light glowed faintly all across its surface, like veins of ore. Not that. Not green. Where was that…?

 

The corner of the room - the far corner. Lyra went closer, hissing with pain on every step. Her legs were shaky. Cold. The blood under her skin too hot. The light hurt her head but she had to see-

 

The floor of the far corner of the room was shattered, the flagstones broken clean through. And underneath - no ice, no snow, no dark earth or grey foundation stone - green.

 

A vortex of light. Bright, swirling green.

 

She heard it. A soft whoosh. Like water. Or was that her blood in her ears? She found herself at the edge of the crater, staring down into the light. It didn’t appear to have a bottom. Just light, all the way down.

 

Her leg shuddered, gave out. She fell to her knees with a low, half-swallowed cry - _quiet! Don’t let anything hear you_! - she tried to catch herself on her hands, but her wounded hand missed the stone and passed into the light -

 

The relief from the pain there was so sudden and so instant that she gasped and snatched her hand away. She stared at her skin. The bleeding had stopped. The deep scratch had half-closed.

 

Cautiously, she submerged her hand again, breathing in sharply as she felt it - she felt the light, warm, gentle. The pain eased to an ache, and after a few breaths, vanished altogether.

 

She didn’t question it. She felt an urgency she couldn’t explain and, stiffly, cursing at the snarling pain, sat down on the edge of the crater and let her legs dangle into the light.

 

It felt something like water. There was a faint resistance, and the sensation of something flowing past. And that noise - whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Beyond that - she felt something. Beyond the red and purple pain, the ache, the thumping behind her eyes, the dizziness, all that - there was something else…

 

But she was tired. So, so tired. Now the pain was easing, she found she could barely keep her eyes open.

 

A short rest. Then she would move on.

 

She lay back on the cold stone, and closed her eyes.

 

*

 

Faint voices, somewhere nearby.

 

Lyra listened, warm and drifting. Two or three voices. They became clearer the longer she listened to them. All different. All strange.

 

Moia.

 

Where was Moia?

 

She woke with a start, and saw a stranger looking down into her face.

 

She yelled and raised a leg to kick him away, only to be checked by a sharp ache deep in her thigh. She made herself pause and breathe through it, remembering - the spider, the bite - the pool of green light -

 

‘Easy, there,’ said the stranger. Lyra looked at him again. A young man, armed and armoured, cloaked against the cold. He was brown, a few shades paler than Lyra, and his dark hair was closely curled and cropped short. He sat back on his heels and held a gloved hand out to her. ‘Come up, now. Are you hurt?’

 

Lyra sat up on her elbows, flexing her hand as it stung and smarted, and stared at him. He was human. That wasn’t right. Humans weren’t allowed down here. Bil always said that - humans weren’t supposed to be there, unless he brought them down himself. And this didn’t seem like one of Bil’s people.  

 

She sat up properly and looked around. She was still in the room she had passed out in. Another person was examining the door - a pale woman with a thick braid of brown hair, wearing light leather armour and a crossbow on her back.

 

The vortex of green swirled in the corner. Lyra found herself staring at the gentle pulse of light, convinced - again - that she could almost hear it…

 

‘What are you doing down here, eh?’ said the man. ‘Someone leave you behind?’

 

Lyra ignored him and, carefully, stood up. She groaned, testing her leg. The pain was bad, but it sharpened her thoughts. Her blood no longer felt like something thick and boiling under her skin. The young man stood with her and held out a hand to steady her when she stumbled. She snatched her arm away and reached into her jacket for her gem.

 

It was cold. She tapped it impatiently. _Come on…_

 

‘Do you speak? Can you understand me?’ And he repeated himself - _do you understand me?_ \- in another one of the southern dialects. He rested his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off and stepped away, half-hopping on her injured leg.

 

The woman left the door and approached. She looked Lyra up and down. ‘We should go back,’ she said to the man. ‘Get her somewhere safe before we go on.’

 

The man nodded. Lyra turned the gem over - _Moia - hear me, please - I need you to hear me, to see this -_

 

The man reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a handful of small stones. He shook them out flat into his palm and sorted through them with a finger. Lyra recognised them - little half-inch grey pebbles, inscribed with coloured symbols. Rune stones. Power sources for spells. Humans used them.

 

_He’s getting a spell together. They’re going to teleport me away._

 

‘No,’ she blurted out, and the two strangers looked at her. She looked between them, unsure of what to say. ‘I’m safe here,’ she tried, ‘just let me go.’

 

‘Did someone leave you down here?’ said the woman, not unkindly. The man kept sorting through his runes. ‘Are you waiting for them?’

 

‘I’m going back to them.’

 

‘Oh, sweetheart, no, there’s nothing good down here. Are you trying to follow them? Did they come down here without you? Leave you behind?’

 

‘Doesn’t matter. I need to get back to them. You can’t stop me.’

 

‘Come back to the surface with us. We can fix this.’

 

‘No!’

 

The woman reached for her. ‘Don’t be scared-’

 

Lyra ducked under her arm and bolted for the door. She shoved at it, throwing all her weight behind her shoulder, but - no use.

 

‘It’s locked,’ said the woman. ‘Come on, enough of this.’

 

Lyra turned and put her back against the door. Something cold and tight was creeping around her chest. She couldn’t think. She needed to think, to come up with a way out - to fight them? Could she fight them? She’d fought humans before, the ones left behind and forgotten in these cold floors, they’d gone down under her arrows before, but these two seemed different - they hadn’t attacked her - what could she do -

 

The gem, edges digging into her tightly closed fist, grew warm.

 

‘Do you have a name?’ said the woman. ‘Can you tell us?’

 

‘Leave me alone!’

 

The man drew a wand. Lyra couldn’t take her eyes off it. The tightness in her chest was getting worse - her hands shook - _think_! But nothing came to her, she couldn’t move, and the woman reached out her hand again and came closer -

 

A burst of power on her left and a portal opened in the air just a few feet away. The man swore - the woman slung her crossbow off her back - Lyra didn’t hesitate, and dived through it.

 

A moment of spinning vertigo - weightless, falling, in many directions - she closed her eyes and held her breath and waited for it to be over -

 

And then the warm stone of home was under her feet. Her aching leg buckled as she landed and she fell to her knees with a pained curse.

 

When the world stopped spinning and the cold nausea passed, she looked up, and saw Moia standing nearby, arms folded. Her expression was not pleased.

 

‘What happened?’ said Moia, her voice hard, as the portal closed.

 

Lyra pushed herself up and rolled her shoulders. ‘There were people up there!’

 

‘You should expect that by now.’

 

‘No - Surface people. Warriors. I thought Bil said there aren’t meant to be people here!’

 

‘Surface people?’

 

Lyra nodded. ‘They weren’t Bil’s.’

 

Moia frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

 

‘They were going to take me away. Up to the surface. I thought-’

 

Moia held up a hand to silence her. ‘Go clean yourself up. Come back here when you’re done. I need to speak with Bilrach about this.’  Lyra glowered. ‘Go!’

 

Lyra stomped off to do as she was told. She locked the door to the rooms she shared with Moia and set about washing the blood and sweat off her skin. She took her time. The water - hot, from the pipes that led to who knows where - cleared her head a little. Brought her back to herself. She undressed to change her clothes and examined the spider bite on her leg again - under the dried blood, all that was left were scars of the puncture wounds, as if she had had them for years. The scar on her hand looked similar. They ached a bit, but it was bearable. Strange.

 

It didn’t make her less cross. Moia hadn’t even asked about it.

 

 _You told her you were fine_ , she thought as she combed out her hair, trying to reason with herself. _You told her you killed it. Of course she’ll be more interested in the trespassers. You told her you were fine._

 

That green light. It had healed her, somehow. She’d never seen anything like it. Maybe Bil would know what it was.

 

She dressed in clean clothes and put up her hair, and then she sat down on the smooth flagstones and watched her hands shake a little in her lap. The cold tightness in her chest was gone. Just fear. Nothing bad. Just a little fear.

 

Once the shaking stopped she got up and went back to the throne room, where she’d left Moia. On the way she heard Moia’s voice, and Bil’s, and then - to her surprise - a third, deep and rumbling. It made her hesitate. She ran a hand over her hair, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Should she go back and bother with shoes? Her boots were filthy, and she liked the feel of the warm stone through her socks. And _he_ wouldn’t care.

 

She took a breath and entered the throne room. The three of them stood near the throne, Moia and Bil and facing them, before his throne, stood Zamorak.

 

Lyra approached and knelt, ducking her head. She felt the three of them watching her - she felt _him_ especially, she felt the force of his presence like waves of heat - and waited for one of them to speak. They didn’t seem cross with her.

 

‘Moia tells me your ran into trouble today,’ said Zamorak.

 

Lyra scowled at Moia. ‘It wasn’t trouble.’

 

‘Get up. She said she had to retrieve you.’ He paused, and Lyra, on her feet, twisted her mouth and refused to speak. The silence stretched out a little. ‘Tell me what happened.’

 

‘Hasn’t Moia?’

 

‘I want to hear it from you. Tell me.’

 

Lyra couldn’t disobey that voice. She took a moment to put her thoughts together.

 

‘I killed a spider,’ she said, ‘a night spider. Big bastard. It bit me - in the leg. It poisoned me. But I found…I found something that healed me, and it made me pass out. When I woke up, there were two people there with me, and they were going to take me away - to the surface! I couldn’t get away from them - they were stronger than me, and - and I thought Bil didn’t let humans into Daemonheim? I thought that was the point?’

 

‘Are you certain they weren’t ours?’ asked Moia.

 

‘They told me they were from the surface! None of _ours_ have said that before. One was a mage and the other, she had a crossbow -  they’re not supposed to be here!’

 

She turned to Bilrach as she said this, hoping he might show some surprise or concern at the news. Surely it mattered - he’d want to know! But he blinked at her slowly, expressionless. Lyra frowned.

 

‘Humans aren’t meant to be here,’ she said again.

 

‘You’re human,’ said Zamorak. ‘You’re here.’

 

Lyra hesitated. That tone of voice - that edge of something sharp emerging in his harsh, deep, growl - usually meant he wanted her to be clever. He wanted her to think. She watched him for a moment but read nothing on his face.

 

‘I’m not really, though, am I?’

 

The three of them focused on her and she had to stop herself flinching. Zamorak said, ‘Do you really believe that?’

 

‘Well,’ said Lyra, ‘I’m not like them. They’re…surface-dwellers. They’re different. Aren’t they?’

 

Zamorak watched her without blinking until she looked down at her feet. He said, ‘Bilrach, see to the defences. Why are they getting in and do we need to do anything about it - I want to know.’

 

‘Yes, Lord,’ said Bilrach, bowing. He left down one of the passages leading deeper into the halls.

 

‘Lyra - come here,’ said Zamorak. He took his throne and Lyra approached, coming up the first few low stairs leading to the dais until she stood level with Moia. Moia frowned down at her, like she was worried. ‘You’ve met your own kind before, have you not?’

 

‘Of course I have. When I go with Moia - I see them all the time.’

 

‘ _Them_. Mmm.’

 

‘I’m not like them!’

 

‘You are human, Lyra. Don’t ever forget that. We certainly won’t.’ He regarded her a little longer. This time Lyra made herself stare back, even though those burning scarlet eyes always made her a little nervous. ‘Moia and I have talked about this.’

 

‘I know I’m human. I know-’

 

‘And yet, you are afraid of your own kind.’

 

‘I’m not afraid-!’

 

‘Liar.’

 

Lyra was silent.

 

‘I cannot have you scared of your own people. You won’t be much use to me. So, you must learn.’

 

Moia turned to him and said, ‘Rennard…?’

 

‘When does he take squires?’

 

‘About her age. She would fit.’

 

Rennard - Daquarius Rennard, Lyra remembered. Leader of the Kinshra. The Black Knights.

 

And she went cold when she realised they were going to send her away. She shook her head and opened her mouth to protest, but Zamorak held up his hand. ‘Did you expect to remain here your whole life?’

 

‘No, Lord.’

 

‘Rennard’s people are our people, Lyra,’ said Moia, a little softer. ‘You won’t be alone. But I think this is best. You need to learn. And then when you are done there…’

 

‘I can come back?’

 

‘We shall see,’ said Zamorak, and dismissed them both.

 

*

 

Two weeks later she left the only home she’d ever known, following Rennard through a portal into the surface world.

 

The previous night Zamorak had summoned her to the throne and, to her surprise, he gave her a gift. One of the scales from his wing, engraved with his sigil, hung from a fine silver chain.  

 

‘So you do not forget where you come from,’ he said as she examined it.

 

‘I won’t. I won’t _ever_.’

 

‘Good girl.’

 

She wore it round her neck and felt a little stronger for its warmth. She tried to remind herself that there was strength in change, that things being different was good, it would make her learn and grow - she didn’t need to be scared. She would be stronger for this.

 

So when Rennard came to collect her, she didn’t hesitate and she didn’t look back, and there were no good-byes.

  



End file.
